


Inscribed

by FleetofShips242



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Obsession, Post-Episode: s02e07 The Writing on the Wall, Sleep Deprivation, hypergraphia, no matter what happens I'll take care of you...that's my plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetofShips242/pseuds/FleetofShips242
Summary: "Point is...no matter what happens, I'll take care of you...that's my plan."Here she was, doing the very thing she had promised, and in spite of everything he had told her...forget all that, and kill me as ordered...he found that he wanted this...craved it. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, but he didn’t have it in him to regret it.
Relationships: Phil Coulson & Melinda May, Phil Coulson/Melinda May
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Inscribed

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: at the end.

_Missing pieces...gotta finish...time running out…_  
.  
The drumbeat in his head thundered on repeat, the cold dread weighing on his chest like a feral predator, constricting his lungs until the only sounds that broke the deathly stillness were his ragged breathing, and the scratch of his knife against the plaster. He tugged agitatedly at the knot of his tie, though it was already loosened several inches, swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat.

With shaking hands, he increased the pressure on the tip of the knife blade, scoring the smooth surface of the drywall in straight, precise strokes...each huffing exhale sending wisps of powdery dust into flight, gliding down to settle on the floor. Chalky gypsum coated everything: the dropcloth, his slacks, his bare feet. He flexed his toes on the canvas cloth, feeling the powdery dust coating feet. HIs skin felt dry...papery...cracked and torn, like a forgotten manuscript on an ancient library shelf.

He wiped pebbled sweat from his brow with the rolled-up cuff of sleeve at his elbow, as a bead escaped and rolled down his face, dripping from his nose onto his dust-covered hand. Impassively, he stopped drawing, and watched the droplet as it coursed down his palm, tracing a straight line through the dust. 

He felt her presence before she spoke, her disapproval curling around her like a thunderhead.

“You’re supposed to call me.”

He didn’t bother turning around, his attention fixed on the wall, scoring out another row of lines. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Have you slept at all?”

He paused, his hand hovering over the etching, trying to formulate an answer, but found that he had no idea. _When was the last time I slept?_ He blinked in confusion, nonplussed by the absence of clear memory.

“Phil--” 

It was the gentle, coaxing tone that finally did it. He dragged his eyes from the pattern on the wall to the woman behind him. 

May stood, arms folded across her chest, watching him warily. Oversized t-shirt and yoga pants --her longtime choice for sleepwear-- no makeup, and tousled hair, told him that she’d gotten out of bed to check on him.

“I can’t--” he shrugged helplessly, gesturing at the wall with his knife.

She crossed the distance between them, and stepping in close, grasped his wrist gently with one hand, while firmly pulling the blade from his grip with the other. Laying the knife on his desk, she absently stroked the inside of his wrist with her thumb. 

He shivered at the contact. Hours of drawing, alone and isolated, produced a mild sensory deprivation. Her hand was warm on his wrist, the pad of her thumb stroking smooth circles on his skin. 

“C’mon.” It was barely a whisper, but as she tugged him toward the door, he found himself disinclined to resist.

The digital clock in the corridor glowed a mocking 3 a.m. as she guided him past the labs and lounge, slowing as she neared the sleeping quarters. She pulled him into her room, locking the door behind her. The bedrooms of the Playground were bigger than the bunks on the Bus...but not by much. Her room was Spartan: industrial desk, table, bed...a small bathroom towards the back. 

She dropped his hand, and he immediately felt bereft.

“Get in,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and nodding to the bed.

He blinked, sluggishly trying to process her orders.”What?”

She sighed, “The only way I’m going to be sure you get some rest, is to make you.”

“May--”

“--Don’t even start, Phil!” she growled, “If you don’t get a couple hours of sleep, you are going to break. If you break, you won’t be any good to us...to your team.”

He stared her down, but she wouldn’t budge, standing like a granite wall between him and the door. Her eyes...a thousand shades of brown and amber…and the stubborn set of her jaw, her lips drawn up in a tight bow, told him that no amount of pleading or pulling rank would shake her resolve.  
  
He made a martyred sound and crawled into the double bed. 

May’s bed was nice: silky sheets smelling faintly of jasmine...a scent he always associated with her. He breathed deeply, surprised at how tired he felt. It was as though a switch had been flipped and exhaustion washed over him. He closed his eyes and inhaled the familiar fragrance, letting the sense of wellbeing wash over him. The crushing weight on his chest evaporated like mist in the morning sunlight.

Dimming the lights, she kicked off her slippers and climbed in beside him.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up, Coulson...it’s not like we’ve never shared a bed.”

She wasn’t wrong. They’d been partners for a long time...dozens of memories cascaded through his mind...  
  
_...surveillance in Morocco, where they’d taken shifts on watch...the mission in Hong Kong, where they’d been undercover as newlyweds..._

 _...then there was that one time, outside of Oslo, where she’d dragged his ass out of a frigid river when the thin spring ice had shattered beneath him...his memories of that one were fractured: pain like needles, shivering uncontrollably on the pebbled riverbed, Melinda’s voice as she built a fire, stripped his wet clothes off and bundled him into the fresh set from his pack. Things got fuzzy after that, and he lost time. When he woke, it was between a lean-to and a crackling fire, Melinda spooned against his back, zipped into their mated sleeping bags._

He relaxed as she settled on her side, facing him. She tried to hide it, but he could see her concern in the furrow of her brow, the purse of her lips. He wanted to reassure her, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to reassure even himself: every day he seemed to lose a tiny sliver of himself to this obsession. Bubbling under the surface was a real nagging concern that he would lose himself entirely...like Garrett. 

_I’d rather die than become a monster,_ he thought bitterly.

He wasn’t even aware of the frantic movements that his fingers were making in the space between them, until she cupped his restless hands between her own, and pulled them against her stomach.

“Sorry--”

“--don’t apologize.” It came out clipped and angry.

It stung a little...after all, this had been her idea, “Look, May...this isn’t working...I’m just making us both miserable. I’ll just go back to my--”

“No.”

“What?”

“You’re not making me miserable,” she sighed, “...but you’re not even trying.” 

He stared at her, confused. _I AM trying!_ Heat crept up his neck, whether from irritation or frustration, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Even in the dim light, she must have noted his reaction, because her expression softened. “Take a deep breath--” she inhaled, held it a beat, and exhaled slowly, nodding at him to mirror her example.

He drew in a breath slowly, pacing her, and they exhaled in tandem. 

A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth as she held his gaze for a moment, then closed her eyes.

They continued for several more minutes, and as he felt the tension drain away, he studied her...the way her eyelashes kissed her cafe au lait skin, the way her dark hair framed her face...the graceful line of her neck. He focused on the long fall of her hair, fascinated by the way his exhale stirred the tendrils against the hollow of her throat...by the thrum of her heart against his knuckles, where she still held them to her chest...nearly undone by the whisper of her warm breath across his neck. 

He managed to suppress the groan it wrenched from him, morphing it into a heavy sigh instead.

Without opening her eyes, she gave his hands a gentle squeeze, and released them, murmuring something sleepily.

He stroked her forearm gently with the tip of his finger. 

_Point is...no matter what happens, I'll take care of you...that's my plan._

Here she was, doing the very thing she had promised, and in spite of everything he had told her... _forget all that, and kill me as ordered_...he found that he wanted this... _craved_ it. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, but he didn’t have it in him to regret it.

His index finger ghosted up her arm in long, straight strokes, broken only by the whisper of a circular motion, blindly inscribing a text across her skin. The delicate touch sent a shiver tremoring through her. He paused, his focus returning to her from the alien landscape inside his head. 

She shifted closer in her sleep, nestling her head under his chin, her light, even breaths puffing softly along his neck. He bowed his face into her hair, inhaling the heady aroma of jasmine and green tea, letting it wash through his soul. 

He continued to breathe with her, syncing their respirations...their heartbeats...until, with heavy-lidded eyes, he felt himself drifting into the blissful twilight that precedes sleep.   


**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by a seemingly insignificant moment in Season 2, episode 7 between Coulson and Daisy:  
> Coulson: How long were you standing there?  
> Daisy: Long enough. May gave us specific instructions...you go on a date with the crazy wall, I have to chaperone.  
> Coulson: I didn't want to wake you.  
> It got me contemplating how much sleep Coulson was sacrificing to the obsession, and what sleep deprivation was doing to his mind. I was also moved by May’s loyalty to him --sacrificing her own sleep to watch over him, and when she had to be away, making sure Daisy would. Out of these random thoughts, this fic was born.


End file.
